My grandfather, Brigadier General Cecil Parker Lessig, would have turned 100 years old today. I didn’t know him well – he died when I was 6 – but I know of his legend. Not just his prestigious military career (detailed here), but his love of life, which he lived to the fullest in his short 76 years.

As I look over Papa’s biography and résumé, I’m astounded by all of his accomplishments:

• First American pilot to fly over German-occupied Europe
• Thousands of hours of flight time in fighter jets, bombers, you name it.
• Too many high-ranking positions to count, including (just to name a few):
  • Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations, Eighth Air Force in England
  • Chief of Overseas Theaters and Redeployment Branch, Washington, D.C.
  • Commander of numerous Air Force divisions in Colorado, Michigan, Montana, Korea and Japan, in additional to high-ranking Pentagon positions
• Decorated with the Legion of Merit, Air Medal, Oak Leaf Cluster, and, perhaps most importantly, the Order of the Rising Sun (3rd Class), the second most prestigious Japanese national decoration given

But Papa was more than a military man. He was an avid hunter, fisher, gardener and golfer. He rubbed shoulders with heads of state. He befriended the famous (Bob Hope, William Wyler, Jimmy Stewart, Ben Hogan) and the infamous (golfing buddies with Misoru Genda, who was instrumental in the attack on Pearl Harbor).

Most importantly though, (at least in my mind) he was a husband, father, and, of course, grandfather. He and my grandmother, Vadalia Ethelyn Graves, were married for 48 years and had two daughters (my mother and aunt) and three grandchildren (my brother, cousin and me).

I don’t remember much about Papa, except that he doted on me, his only granddaughter. We had good times, whether it was out in his vegetable garden, playing jokes on my grandmother, or just visiting. Papa called me “his girl,” and I idolized him.

Judging by his sister’s long life (she’s going on 98), Papa might still be alive today if it hadn’t been for his vices: drinking and smoking. His death from lung cancer in 1984 was a devastating loss, one that reverberates to this day.

I miss you, Papa. You were one in a century, and truly one of a kind.